


That's Not Very Ladylike

by PurpleMoon3



Series: dresden_kink fills [11]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Blindness, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Porn, WinterLady!Harry, Wish I could Develop This More
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: For all intents and purposes, Harry Dresden has become the Winter Lady.  With that Mantle comes an instinctual, near maddening need to get fucked.  Luckily, Harry Dresden is the first Queen-That-Will-Be that can't actually get pregnant and, thus, the Mantle won't kill his lovers.John Marcone plans to take full advantage of this fact.
Relationships: Harry Dresden/Johnny Marcone
Series: dresden_kink fills [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/88621
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	That's Not Very Ladylike

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [THIS](https://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/3344.html?thread=3917584#cmt3917584) prompt. It veers quite a bit to the left of the premise, however, as it is Mab's death that promoted Mauve and caused the Winter Lady Mantle to find a new host. The nearest available 'female' just happened to be Lash. Who is hosted by Harry. Who just did a suicide run on Arctis Tor trailing a bunch of Outsiders.
> 
> I've actually had this sitting in my fanfic folder for a two or three years waiting to become something more than porn, but I can't find it in me to fully flesh out the background. Suffice it to say that post Dead Beat, Bob got 'appropriated' by Mab and Harry went to extremes to get him back.

“I need to look at the damage.” Marcone spoke simply, factually, as his wizard grumbled and wrapped that great black coat around himself like a mulish child with a blanket. There were damp patches where spirals of frost fronds and flowers had melted along with the Mantle's presence; a sign of more injury than Dresden wanted to admit. Wanted to pay for.

But Marcone was more than willing to extend a line of credit. If he made it long enough, it could leash even gods.

“I'll be fine.” The wizard was turned away, speaking with short, angry breaths, and there was no doubt in the other man's mind of the pain that he had to be feeling. Physical, and metaphysical. When his had men reported, all those months ago, discovering Dresden on the streets wounded and near death Marcone wouldn't be ashamed to confess he had considered for a moment ordering a retreat. Allowing the wizard to die would have solved several bubbling background issues and helped further his influence with certain hold outs. Yet, Dresden's death would have closed off several other avenues for the future. Even blinded as he had been reported to be, and delirious, there was much use to be found with a wizard's debt.

And, honestly, the monetary costs associated with transport and medical care for the stubborn ass were not even as much as he'd spent on bribes and charities. After that...? A pittance. It was something of a boon Dresden's relations with his own kind were so strained. The return on his investment was, quite simply, priceless.

Marcone hadn't gotten to the top of the heap -and stayed there- by looking at the short term. He hadn't used magic to rein in Chicago's underbelly, and he didn't need it for such. What he wanted, and what he was acquiring piece by carefully checked piece, was below that. For Chicago was the Second City, and what the Gray Wolves had made he fully intended to take back.

Marcone rolled up his shirt sleeves and placed a hand, softly, near the nape of Dresden's neck beneath the collar of the duster. The hairs there were damp from sweat, from the commingling of fire and frost in an impossibility that had even Gard shaking her head in wonderment as Marcone silently thanked his lawyers for the clause of client-employee secrecy in her contract, and Marcone leaned in with a harsh whisper for Dresden's ears alone. “You really want to risk the pixies pulling out steel jackets?”

The wizard went still beneath his hand. For once, it hadn't been anything supernatural that brought Dresden down. A snafu on Marcone's part -he would be reviewing this incident after his wizard was taken care of- and what should have been a simple meeting to discuss the current factions and conditions of Undertown had turned into a shoot out with Morelli's New York backers. The likelihood of those men actually using steel plated bullets was low, but still a possibility particularly if they were aware of what lurked in the old smuggling tunnels. For all that his wizard was adapting admirably to his change in circumstance, Dresden was mortal enough, and it had been a sweltering summer day.

“...fine.” A beat, followed by an acerbic. “ _Thanks_.”

Marcone could imagine another link in the chain that tied Dresden to him. He allowed himself an unseen smile. Dresden huffed, winced, and Marcone gently took him by the elbow to lead him to the bed. In his own environment one might never suspect that the former Winter Queen had taken his eyes, and in battle Harry Dresden could track an enemy even better than most seeing individuals, but there were dangers to overusing those methods. Or so Marcone had come to understand. Madness, being the principal consequence.

Harry Dresden was trying enough while sane. He chose not to think too much on what an insane Harry might do. Rampage through the Heart of Winter trailing Eldritch Abominations, apparently.

Marcone slapped away Harry's hands and pulled the remnant of the wizard's previous lover open. The leather itself was strewn with protective enchantments, to better preserve item and wearer, and no bullets had made it through the material. In fact, Marcone noticed with narrowed eyes, a flattened chunk of metal fell to the bed as, hissing, Harry shrugged out of the coat. The shirt beneath, formerly Raith white, was now stained red in spots. Marcone sucked on his teeth and reached for the uppermost button on Dresden's shirt.

Large, yet slender hands closed around his own as Dresden protested, “I can-”

“If you don't stop moving, I am going to cut it off.” Marcone stated, dryly, and he didn't have to mention the knife in easy reach. Dresden knew him almost as well as he knew Dresden, and Marcone always had a blade to hand.

“You just want to see me with my shirt off. Admit it.” Harry countered with a little something else laced under the snide tone.

Still, he leaned back and let Marcone work. “If I wanted to look at a shirtless man, Harry, you would not be my first choice.” The buttons came undone easily enough, Marcone's fingers skipping around shallow cuts and pausing over a swollen bit of bruised flesh. He would prefer to summon his own surgeons, a handful on rotating retainer just for this purpose, but Dresden would insist on the mortician and that argument would go nowhere until Harry lost enough blood to pass out.

The wizard's body shivered as Marcone grabbed the forceps from the med-kit and went fishing. The bullet had probably been a lucky ricochet, and been slowed first by the dense ice that tended to build up like armor and then stopped by the bone of Dresden's rib. The wound wasn't very deep, though stitches would be needed until whatever force fueled wizard recovery kicked in. Harry's breath caught as the steel needle nose dove in smoothly. His knuckles were white as his fingers tore at the bed sheets, and his voice came hot and breathy as Marcone worked the bullet free. “B-bet I'm a close second, though.”

It was enough to draw Marcone's attention from the offending piece of metal -shining gray glimpsed beneath meat and blood- to Dresden's face. Soft gray silk wrapped around his head, shielding eyes that were no longer present, but below that sharp cheeks flushed. Chapped lips parted, the lower damp from being tucked inside Dresden's irreverent mouth and bitten.

“I hadn't realized you were so invested in my preferences, Harry.”

“Don't call me Harry, _John._ ”

Dresden had always been wiry, skinny, and all angles and irritation. But even after his disappearance -no one seemed to know where he had gone or what he had been doing between delivering an official letter of resignation to the White Council and all but declaring War on Winter- and convalescence under Marcone's watch those angles seemed to both sharpen and smooth, slender instead of skinny, until there was an almost fae quality in certain light.

(Marcone wondered, once, staring into a swirling shot glass: If Harry still had eyes would the pupils be slit? The Sidhe had no souls for a wizard to gaze upon, but Harry no longer had eyes with which one could check.

Marcone decided, then, he preferred it that way. Much easier to work in a gray area, and he'd rather no one else see what he had on that first disastrous, fortuitous meeting.)

Dresden didn't say a word when Marcone flushed the wound, probing fingers noting the sudden drop from fever to almost uncomfortable chill now that the iron alloy was removed, and only grunted softly as the needle pierced his skin to close the hole. Three not so neat, but that was why Marcone preferred professionals for this sort of thing, stitches later and Marcone had moved on to applying light antibiotic to the minor cuts and scrapes that turned up during the shoot out. Harry's grip on the bedspread had not let up, no matter how lightly touched the wounds.

“Harry?”

The wizard grunted, and Marcone rocked back to better observe. Small tremors running down the muscles in his arms. Mouth opened, breathing measured.

Marcone reached for the button of Dresden's jeans, listened for the quick intake of breath, and snapped himself back when the younger man jerked forward only to catch himself and bow his head. “M-Maybe you should go, Marcone. I can deal with the rest.”

Dresden couldn't see his smile. When next Marcone spoke, he made sure the wizard wouldn't hear it, either. “Even if you could see what you were doing, I'm don't care to leave a job half finished.”

“The bullet's out, there isn't anything else that needs-” The words stopped as Harry's mouth sagged open, Marcone's hand down his pants.

“I think there is.” Marcone whispered, but he took the bite out of his tone as he slid Dresden's jeans off. This was a far more complicated and dangerous dance than anything else. Harry shivered, shook his head, lips moving as if arguing with himself, yet his hips bucked once. Twice. He whimpered and it was a sound that went straight to Marcone's own cock. “When was the last time you had a good fuck? I don't think it was the vampire, no matter what the gossip train says.”

Or maybe it was. When Rodriguez became infected, perhaps taking up with a different breed of vampire was the wizard's misguided way of staying connected to her. Loyalty. Power. Marcone's penis stiffened further as he slid a free hand under Dresden's balls and reached for the lube in the med kit with his other. He considered picking out a condom as well. Sex was a need as much as any other, and his safe houses were well stocked all over the city. If his men and women were on lock-down, and they felt an itch...

Harry's fingers closed around his wrist, strangely delicate, even as he panted and the wizard's own dick begged for more attention. “Marcone. John. This isn't me, it's-”

“Is it?” Marcone leaned in close, watching as a bead of sweat rolled down Dresden's forehead only to be absorbed by the material of the blindfold. Only douche bags wore sunglasses inside, or so the man claimed. “Tell me to stop.”

Dresden's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He didn't say to stop. He was about as far from Marcone's usual bed partners as one could get, but fucking Harry was certainly no hardship. Marcone cupped his face, felt the hard line of cheekbone nuzzle against his palm, and had to take a deep breath himself as hands like claws pawed at his pants, tugged at his belt. A guttural, “ _Inside._ ” was met with an equally uncompromising, “ _No._ ”

Harry jerked as if slapped, bared his teeth, and it was all Marcone could do not to push Dresden down into the mattress and fuck him like he asked. Demanded. Quick and hard and dirty like so many flings in dark alleys or cramped closets. That was what the Mantle wanted. That was what _Marcone_ wanted.

He could win the Lady, and lose the Wizard.

Marcone squeezed Dresden's balls lightly, both warning and reminder, and the wizard's arms lifted, trembling, in the universal symbol of peace for those who couldn't release waves of raw energy from their open hands. Dresden's throat worked, swallowing air, swallowing words, until Marcone's steady fondling of the smooth skin sheltering Harry's testicles melted the hungry tension from the wizard, head tipping back and exposing his throat.

Harry lay supine on the bed, relaxed and waiting, though to call him still or patient would be an overstatement. His lips had pressed together into a thin line. The short, thin scar near his mouth where a clawed thumb had grasped him pulled tight as well, elongating and drawing attention, and the blemish both enraged and aroused Marcone. Harry's hands kept twitching, as if desperately wanting to grab hold and throttle his tormentor, and his legs still trembled, calves firming up where they hug off the bed. Harry's cock remained a steadfast exclamation point, bobbing in the air with brief, aborted thrusts. Marcone ran his palm over Harry's thigh like he would to sooth a skittish beast, picking out the mottled dips of fading scars and those bright and new.

Marcone frowned momentarily at spots of red already staining fresh bandages. He frowned further as he poured the lubricant into his hands and encircled Harry's dick with the fingers of one hand as the other rubbed at and massaged the wizards anus with clerical precision. Marcone's own erection throbbed needfully as he pumped Harry's, but he ignored it for the moment. All those hard edges were smoothing away with every happy little sigh that escaped the younger man as the Lady took her pleasure. Marcone tested the waters, dipped a finger inside his wizard and received a dreamy, “More.”

Marcone dragged out the moment. He had no trouble with himself, Harry was fascinating enough to watch to keep Marcone's arousal from flagging, and by the time the crime lord had three fingers carefully stretching in the whimpering, whispering wizard he'd already directed the man to take care of his own cock. Going slow was even necessary to a point. Marcone already had to hold Harry in place, pressing down on Harry's stomach, as he aggressively introduced the needy thing to his prostate and to the very edge of orgasm. The frantic squirming as he did so threatened to open newly closed wounds, and as if in the name of equality fresh lines of raised red trailed down Marcone's broad shoulders.

He'd wanted to take Harry right then, the not quite pain a spice of sensation, but if he had done that it would be over all too soon. Instead he dialed everything back, gently took Harry's finger's from his shoulders and wrapped them like a self-imposed cock ring around the base of the wizard's flushed rod, and watched as the lines of his face tensed in the effort to not stroke himself to completion. Marcone rewarded that with a gentle kiss to the smooth skin on the inner side of Harry's knee as he lifted it the leg, spreading his wizard further. A rumbling encouragement came out, instinctual: “Good girl...”

Marcone cut off a breathless insult with his dick, and when he slid inside of Harry's warmth it was like coming home.

“John.” It wasn't his name. Not really. Sometimes Marcone forgot that. “ _John._ ”

“Shh. I got you, sweetheart.” He pulled out, slowly, dragging his length along the sensitive ring of muscle that clamped down around him as if trying to hold on. Harry's grip on his own cock was loosening. Marcone pushed back in, angling to hit the spot inside that made Harry shiver and pant and fall apart by inches putting him that much more under Marcone's umbrella. “Relax.”

Winter was cold, and harsh, but that wasn't all. Maybe it was the Mantle, or the Angel, or Harry, or just the fact that it had been a few years since since Marcone had chosen to find release with a man rather than a woman but going balls deep into the wizard felt like he'd stepped from a snowstorm into a cozy cabin with a roaring fire in the hearth. When Harry reached for him with his left hand, the charms of his enchanted bracelet clinking gently, it was done with a benediction of “ _Stay_.”

The words were tempting. The leg not thrown over Marcone's shoulder had hooked him around the back, heel grinding into the muscle there in a slow circular motion reminiscent of Marcone's earlier actions. Harry's right hand, his staff hand, wandered along his eager shaft until he pressed thumb against the head of his penis. Impossibly white teeth peeked between pale pink lips as he shivered around Marcone, delighting in the tease of a show he himself couldn't see. Or maybe he could. What did a mortal man look like, in the throws of the most primal actions, to a Wizard's Sight?

Marcone closed his own eyes, thought back to the half angry, half terrified, all stubborn dark pits he'd locked with years ago. There had been a burnt out tower in those depths, tall and crumbling and patched and swamped by a maze inhabited by unseen screaming monsters like Clive Barker's interpretation of Labyrinth. Marcone's lungs took in a great gulp of air as he increased his speed, head bowed, while hands meant for weapons found purchase on bony hips and too-soft cotton.

Marcone tried to withdraw, to tease Harry's entrance with the very tip of his dick, but before he could move more than an inch or two Harry snarled and those great long legs were more akin to those of a hunting spider than a lady. Flesh felt like metal girders, blocking him, holding him close, and instead of struggling to escape Marcone narrowed green eyes and pressed forward. He drove into his wizard. Short, abrupt movement as he bent forward with forearms pressing into the mattress. Slender arms looped around his neck, pulling them closer, and for a bare second Marcone felt Harry's hurried, near panicked breathing before teeth closed around his pulse.

John's head jerked away from the unwelcome attack, right hand still sticky with the remains of the lube burrowing into the dark thicket of Harry's hair and pulling with a loud, harsh, “ _Dresden!_ ”

Near instantly, the thankfully blunt teeth at his throat released, and Marcone could feel rough lips tremble as Harry shuddered beneath him. It wasn't excitement. It wasn't anger. The wizard's chest expanded irregularly, hiccuping, and a wet tongue lathed apologetically at Marcone's neck. The tremors didn't stop. With a sigh Marcone let his grip relax, though he did not release his hold. His fingers combed soothingly at Harry's scalp.

“Let's not do that again, Harry.” Marcone said, practically cradling the shivering wizard as the touch of tongue turned into a brush of lips and a flitting ghost of _sorry_ , _didn't mean to_ , and _feel so empty, feel_ _ **cold**_. He leaned back, carefully shifting his weight back to his feet while resuming the much slower rocking motion. He stayed mostly in the hot warmth of Harry's welcoming ass, and let long fingers quest along his chest, mapping scars and skin. Silent flashes of bright, glittering colors skimmed his periphery. Loyalty. Obligation. Noblesse Oblige. Motes of magic and fleeting thought that orbited their chosen sovereign like planets around a star.

His hand clamped involuntarily back down, tipping Harry's head back as the wizard's back arched and he let out a hurried, “J-John. I'm gonna come. I-”

Marcone kept thrusting throughout Harry's orgasm, stroking the man's hair and whispering gentle words that would later leave the wizard angry and flustered and a primed minefield to point at the next unfortunate soul. However, blissed out and assured of forgiveness, Harry's body moved with Marcone instead of against him. Shallow white pools of ejaculate painted Harry's stomach, his cock going soft and pliant as the rest of him.

It wasn't a fight anymore. Marcone felt himself approaching completion, the heat of his loins fanned by his stubborn, stupidly powerful wizard momentarily conquered. Bending to him. The mark he held against Harry's dislike wouldn't last forever, Winter would get it's shit together eventually, and if he wanted the spirit of Dresden instead of some mockery remnant he needed more than what contracts and favors would provide. Marcone dabbed up the drops of Dresden's semen that had smeared on his own torso. It wasn't blood, and while useful didn't have nearly the same magical potency that blood had. Seminal fluid was _meant_ to be given away.

He slipped his cum stained fingers between Harry's lips and shuddered himself. The gentle rocking ended with his first contraction. He slammed in, rough, angry, spilling himself into the wizard as Harry licked and nibbled and sucked at Marcone's fingers as if he could draw more of the bitter fluid forth with proper technique. Happy little sounds worked their way around the fingers in his mouth as he took everything Marcone gave him, open and soft and willing, the bed shaking with the force of the pounding.

Panting, finished, Marcone took a moment to catch his breath as his penis relaxed in Harry's warmth. He was not so young as he once was. Aftershocks shivered through him, pulses emptying the last of his seed in the fallow ground. He pulled out, nearly collapsed on the wounded wizard, and just barely remembered to fall to the side.

Dresden lay like an ember along his side, Winter's chill banished for the moment, his breathing easing into steady even measures at long last.

Susan Rodriguez had been the first steady relationship of record for Harry Dresden, other than a handful of piss-pour dates that did not merit mention. Dresden went to war over the love of an idealistic reporter as stubborn as himself and been burned for it. His exact relationship to Thomas Raith was as yet a mystery to Marcone, it was all too sudden for lovers despite Raith's incubus status, but it was enough for the wizard to nearly start yet another war with the only vampire faction to remain neutral during the Wizard-Vampire conflict. Marcone idly watched as the glowing lights of Dresden's honor guard drifted, giggling, a few making crude motions as they spun lazily in the air. _Loyalty._

Having Dresden was one thing. Keeping him was something else.

Marcone squeezed down on Harry's upper thigh, kneading the muscle rhythmically as his heartbeat returned to normal and the air cooled the sex scented sweat of his skin. He had started to drift to slumber himself when a knock sounded at the door. “Mr. Marcone?”

Irritated, Marcone shifted and pulled a pillow beneath Harry's head to replace his own reclaimed arm. He ignored the colorful sparks lapping up their lord's spilled seed, and the ones brushing and sorting out damp brown locks with combs the size of microchips. He took his gun from where it had fallen with it's holster and cracked open the door, “Mr. Braddock.”

Evan Braddock ignored his Boss' state of undress, or the only possible reason for it. He stood with his hands loose at his side. “The prisoners are ready for you, if you like.”

Marcone nodded. He considered. “Ten minutes. No one touches them till I get there.”

“Sir.”

Marcone didn't smile as he closed the door and headed for the shower. He did not enjoy his work, per say, but it was certainly easier with a wizard around to disable his enemies without killing most of them in the process. The second interrogation always went so much smoother after demonstrating with the first.


End file.
